


Dark Thoughts: Rewrite and Continuation

by orphan_account



Series: Chase Brody [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Real World, Angst, Cuddles, Depression, Domestic Violence, Eventual Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, I can't get the m/m thing to go away bc I haven't written any of that in yet, I don't wanna mislead anyone I'm sorry but it won't go away!, I fucking love chase, M/M, Overthinking, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse, have i mentioned i love chase?, this is really sad but I don't know how to write anything else :/
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-14 03:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16905399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Chase is suicidal (surprise, surprise) and reaches out to his friend for help, but not before I torture you all (including myself) with angst.





	1. Exposition

I bounce my leg up and down furiously as I try to focus on a youtube video, but I can’t get the dark thoughts to go away. They just keep coming and coming and coming and  _ coming _ — 

I rap my fingers against the base of my laptop. My vision is flickering in and out, like a dying flashlight. Every coherent thought thought leaves my head in one final white flash, and before I know it, I’m gently tossing my laptop aside and bolting upstairs. I whip around the corner and into the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as I can. Breathing heavily with a racing heart, I stay put facing the door. 

_ Stop. Stop. Stop. STOP. STOP. STOP. DON’T YOU DARE MOVE A MUSCLE.  _

I can’t stop. 

I turn around slowly and lean against the door. The lump in my throat feels like it’s growing. 

I pull out the little blade from the drawer on the left and fidget with it. I took this out of a razor and a wrapped it in a bandage. Took me ten minutes to make the damn thing and I didn’t stop myself at any point. I’m absolutely spineless. 

Lightheaded, I sit on the edge of the tub. The usual questions I ask myself before a relapse as a last ditch attempt to see if I can prevent it flood my mind. 

_ Will you really be able to hide the scabs?  _

Yes, but  not easily . 

_ Is there anything else you can do?  _

Dozens of things. Just pick  one . 

I don’t get scared until I get to the last question... 

_ Do you still want to do this?  _

… yeah. I do. 

My lack of hesitation is both frightening and relieving. I drag the blade across my forearm with a slow, shaky stroke to familiarize myself with it again. It’s not very deep, so it takes a few seconds for the tiny beads to start seeping through. I close my eyes gently as I finally take a satisfying breath. The wave of adrenaline washes over me. I make a few more before I start to pick up the pace. Instead of slow, steady cuts, I start to make quicker, smoother slices. I have about a dozen now, all about two inches long that get deeper the farther up they go. My heart has finally slowed and I can breathe properly again. I sit still for a moment wallowing in a familiar emotion. I can only describe it as guilty relief. 

After letting myself fully calm down, I stand slowly and shakily to return the blade to its designated spot. I look at myself for a moment wondering how I’m the same person as the man in the mirror. I tilt my head slightly as I ponder. This happens every time, but it’s still intriguing. His eyes are empty and I barely recognize him. 

I snap myself out of it and rinse the small, dry droplets of blood off of my arm with my hand. I dry off and roll my sleeve back down when I’m hit with a wave of guilt- Stacy bought me this hoodie. No wonder she left me. I’m just a mess. The kids shouldn’t be anywhere near me. 

Suicidal ideation can be such a bitch. I’m suicidal, but I don’t want to die. I thought I was crazy for feeling like this, but I think I’ve figured out the paradoxical impulse. I don’t want to die; I want the pain to stop. I’m anxious every moment of every day. Not even sleep is an escape. Sleepwalking, waking up with sore muscles and clenched teeth from being tensed up all night, the occasional nightmare. 

It feels like the only option at this point. I mean, obviously it’s not the only option– I know that. My options are: form multiple chemical dependency issues to ignore my constant misery, be honest with my therapist and friends and work unbelievably hard just to be able to tolerate life, and well… I still have at least a six dozen pills upstairs and enough liquor to kill an elephant. 

The thing is, I fucking hate myself for knowing too much. I know exactly  _ why  _ I feel like this,  _ how  _ to get better, and that if I hold on it  _ will  _ get better. I have reasons to love myself and people that care for me... but I still want to die. I’m just so tired. I’m fucking exhausted. I know what I should do, I just feel like I can’t do it anymore. I’ve been trying so hard. I’m just so, so tired. 


	2. Another Day, Another Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chase comes face to face with a monumental choice, a choice he makes nightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first draft of this Chapter in the psych ward, so like. I was dealing with some stuff. The first chapter was written right before I went to the psych ward.

In one smooth whirl, Chase unlocks his front door and steps inside. He gently pulls the door shut and rests his head against the cold wood; he taps his head  once on the door. His hand is still resting on the handle. This house feels so empty without Stacy and the kids. It’s been months, but it still feels like they left yesterday.  

_ Another day shittier than the last. What a surprise,  _ he curses. At this point, he’s come to expect as much. 

He goes through the first half of his usual routine: hang up his coat, swap his winter hat for his baseball cap, then plops down onto the couch trying not to cry. He is suddenly aware that he was holding his breath and gasps. He rests his head back on the couch for a moment; he feels so lightheaded. 

He recalls the last time he’d stopped breathing like that and winces at the memory. There’s a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach; he really doesn’t want to relive that. After thirty seconds of tightly pressing his eyes shut, he unclenches his grip around his knee. He hadn’t noticed how hard he’d been digging his nails into his skin. There are little crescent-shaped indentations in a half circle around his kneecap.  

He feels another pang of guilt strong enough to make him double over in pain. 

_ Fuck! _

When his abdomen finally relaxes, he sits upright and continues trying to steady his breathing. 

_ Why didn’t I listen to him?  _

He decides to finish the second half of his nightly routine instead of dwelling on it. He starts with pulling out his phone and placing it on his left thigh. Then, he fumbles around the cushion to his right before he finds what he’s looking for. He reaches down, but hesitates for a moment. His hand hovers for a few seconds. He lets out a heavy sigh before gingerly lifting the gun off the bottom of the couch. He sets it onto his right thigh carefully, as though it could explode if not handled cautiously– an analogy befitting his rapidly deteriorating mental health. 

_ There they are– the angel and the devil.  _ He’s not even sure which is which anymore. 

He stares at the two intermittently for an immeasurable amount of time trying to make his decision. Eventually, he puts his phone back into his pocket. He holds the gun in his right hand for a moment with his lips pursed. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses it to his temple; the cold kiss of metal on his feverish skin sends a shiver down his spine. His heart is beating at slow, loud pace. He counts the beats. 

One... 

Two... 

Three... 

 

He lets out the breath he was holding and rests his arms on his thighs, letting the gun dangle between his knees. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. He turns the safety back on and tucks it back into the couch. 

_ Looks like I’m choosing purgatory again,  _ he muses before dragging himself to the kitchen. He opens the cupboard above the sink and takes one of the many bottles of whiskey with him to the couch– he doesn’t need a glass. He lets out a long sigh before taking a swig. 


	3. I Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst! (and a little fluff at the end)

Jackie slumps into his car; he’s a little tired from work, but he doesn’t care. He loves his job. He smirks as he recalls today’s events. He’d been tracking this guy– the truest scum of the earth– for over three months, but that pig always found a way to worm out of his grasp. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

_Circumstantial evidence, my ass._

He’s still bitter that it took this long, but today he finally got to take that fucker in. God, he loves being a P. I. You don’t need superpowers or a cape to be a hero.

He rubs his eyes and rests his head on the steering wheel. He exhales before sitting up straight again. His phone buzzes from his bag in the passenger’s seat. It takes him a second to dig through his junk to find it.

_Jesus christ, 13 texts and 3 voicemails… and they’re all from Chase?_

It takes him a few seconds to scroll all the way to the top of his unread messages.  

The first message is just a key smash and the second one is barely legible. Honestly, none of these are easy to read.

 

_5:24 pm_

_aaaaaaaaajhjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkk_

_5:24 pm_

_ssory i din t men o  sndtht_

_5:31 pm_

_jackie i thnk im ging czy_

_5:33 pm_

_i misss u_

_5:42 pm_

_ushld cm ovrr_

_5:50 pm_

_ily mn_

 

The other texts are completely indecipherable, so he decides to play a voicemail.

 

_6:03 pm, duration 00:17_

“Jaaaaaackiiiiiieeee,” Chase slurs.  There’s a clattering sound like he dropped his phone, and Jackie can hear a muffled, “Ah, sshhit,” and some fumbling around before he continues a little more clearly.“C’ _moooon_ an _swe_ rrthe phonnne. I wan’ talk t’you, ma _nnn_.”

 

Well, he’s definitely drunk. I think that one of his texts said he wants me to come over, which means he’s at home. Why is he drunk alone? He’s a grown man and he’s allowed to drink, but… Chase has been pretty quiet since Stacy decided to split, so he could probably guess why he was alone, drunk, at 6 PM.

_I need to check on him._

The phone doesn’t even finish ringing once before Chase picks up.

“Heeey, man!”

“Hey, Chase, you okay?”

“Pfft, yeaaa ‘m fine.”

His slurring is a little better, but he's still drunk. “Are you sure you're alright..?”

He doesn't respond, which confirms Jackie's assumptions.  

“I’ll drive over. I’m just off work, so I’m not too far.” He puts his phone on speaker. “What’s going on, man?”

Chase still doesn’t respond.

“Buddy? You still there?”

He slows to a stop at a red light and he realizes that the hum of his car had been drowning out the sound of Chase softly crying.

“Oh, Chase, I’ll be over soon; I’m only, like, two blocks away.”

Chase sniffles, and after a long moment of silence, he says, “I jus' want it all t' end.”

The random statement is thoroughly off-putting. Jackie’s heart rate quickens.

“Chase, what does that mean?”

Yet again, he doesn’t respond.

“Chase? Alright, I’m pulling up _right_ now.”

 _What the hell is going on with him?_  he worries.

He pulls up sloppily along the curb and jogs to the front entrance. He doesn’t need to knock.

“Chase! Where you at?”

As he heads to the living room, he notices how messy everything is. There are dishes piled in the sink and more than several empty liquor bottles in there. There’s a pile of unopened mail, takeout bags, and other miscellaneous items on the dining room table. Everything is generally disorderly.

Jackie rounds the corner and steps into the living room. Chase is sitting on the ground with his head on his knees and his back against the couch. He looks up when he realizes Jackie is there. His hat is crooked, his eyes are red, and he sounds like he’s trying not to cry.

“Hey.”

Without saying anything, Jackie kneels at his side and pulls him into a hug. Chase holds onto his friend tightly ~~as if his life depends on it~~ and immediately breaks down. When Jackie starts to whisper small reassurances, it only makes him cry harder and grab two fist fulls of Jackie’s shirt in an attempt to pull him even closer.

“It’s gonna be okay, Chase.” He rubs his back gently, and he can feel Chase melt in his arms.  

“I promise it’s gonna be okay.”


	4. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some potentially triggering descriptions of domestic abuse, so stay safe readers.  
> Stacy is a t e r r i b l e person.

Chase is sitting on the edge of his bed timidly justifying his actions as Stacy furiously paces in front of him.

“I-I… I just thought we could use some help. I wanted to talk to a thera—”

“Shut the fuck up, Chase. I don’t care. I don’t _care!_ How dare you even _consider_ talking about _our_ problems with someone else. God! You fucked up, Chase. You know what, I can’t handle the stress of this right now. Fucking idiot. Be a fucking man.” She slaps him across the face so hard that he almost falls off the bed.

Chase holds back tears as he gently touches his stinging cheek and stares intently at the wallpaper in front of him. His chest feels empty and numb.

“God, if you weren’t so _stupid_ I wouldn’t have to act like this.”

With that final statement, she storms out of the bedroom. A minute later, she screams, “I’m picking up the kids from school and taking them to my sister’s so we can talk more about this later!” The front door slams shut so hard that the windows shake.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Chase is waiting at the dining room table when Stacy returns. She appears to have calmed down.

“We’re not going to debate this,” she states firmly. “You’re not going to talk to that therapist again. End of discussion. Do you understand?”

Chase avoids eye contact by staring down at the table. “Yes.”

She sighs. “Look… I’m sorry about earlier, honey. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” Her expression changes to one he’s grown familiar with. She walks around the table to stand behind him.

“Let me make it up to you,” she says in a low voice. Chase feels her arms slowly wrapping around him from behind. She stays there a few moments before placing a soft kiss on his neck.  

“Stacy…” he starts. He tries to beg with his eyes for her to stop as she sits on his lap. She kisses him aggressively despite his stiffness and obvious discomfort.

_No no no, not this._

She takes off her shirt before kissing him again.

“No,” he whispers into her lips; his eyes fill with tears.

She ignores him.

“Stacy, no,” he says a little louder.

She slides her hands up his shirt and scratches him lightly.

He presses his eyes tightly shut. _No no no no—_

She digs her nails into the soft skin on his waist. The sharp pain sends a terrifying shock through his body.

“ **No!** ” he yells and shoves her away.

She falls to the floor with a loud thump and she bumps her head on a leg of the table. She looks completely stunned. It takes Chase a second to snap out of it and flee while she’s dazed. He can hear Stacy yelling from the other room as he snags his coat off the hook on the wall.

“ _Chase! Get the fuck back here!!_ ”

He barely puts on his shoes before he’s out the door and getting into his car. He doesn’t know where he’s going or how long he’ll be gone. All he can think is, _drive._


	5. Come With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a description of a panic attack, so again: stay safe!  
> Chase meets someone by sheer coincidence.

After fifteen minutes of driving nowhere, he decides to pull over; he’s really lightheaded. He can barely think, let alone drive safely. He parks in an empty lot, save for one car, for what looks to be a small business. It’s six pm, but it’s already dark outside. He hates this time of year. If not for the soft yellow glow of the single light post, it would be pitch black outside. He’s nauseous with guilt and he’s starting to— 

_ Oh, god, how long have I been holding my breath?  _

He inhales desperately before having a coughing fit until his sides hurt. He tries to rub them, but they hurt to touch. Why are his sides sore? He lifts his shirt to see five round bruises on either side of his waist just under his ribs; there’s a little crescent shaped scratch in the center of each one. 

His breath catches in his throat and it feels like he’s choking. He can feel his pulse in every limb and his body shakes with tremors. He has a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and his thoughts are racing so fast he can barely keep track of them. 

_ She’s going to find me. What if Stacy does something worse next time! She’s going to find me everything is my fault she’s going to hit me again why did I do this it’s my fault she’s going to be so upset with me this is my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault—  _

_ Knock, knock _

He jumps at the sudden sound. He’s still struggling to breathe as he examines the figure that tapped his window. The man is wearing a white lab coat over a mint green shirt and black jeans. He’s speaking to Chase, but his voice sounds muffled like he’s underwater. Chase’s hands are shaking so badly that he can barely push the button to crack the window. 

“Excuse me, sir, I’m a doctor. Are you alright?” he asks. He has a thick German accent.

Chase continues to hyperventilate. 

“I will take that as a ‘no.’ Do not worry. Are you experiencing any chest pain?” 

Chase manages to shake his head.  

“Are you having an allergic reaction?” 

He shakes his head again. 

“In addition to hyperventilation and tremors, are you experiencing any of the following: racing heart, hot and cold flashes, racing thoughts, feeling like you’re going crazy, tingling in your appendages?” He holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers as he lists the last item. 

Chase’s teeth start chattering, “Y-y-yes.” 

“Alright, I believe you are having a panic attack; have you ever experienced these symptoms before?” 

“I th-think s-s-so.” 

“I see. Now, I’m going to ask you to do something for me, okay? Focus on my voice.” 

His accent is a bit silly like a cartoon character’s, but when he lowers his tone, his voice is fairly soothing. 

“Don’t forget to breathe. Follow along with me please. Breathe in as deeply as you can manage.” 

Chase complies. 

“Good, hold it… now exhale. Excellent job; keep breathing like that.” 

Chase can feel his heart slowing a little and his firm grip on the steering wheel loosening. 

“You are in no danger here. I promise, you are safe. My name is Henrik; what is yours?” 

Chase exhales deeply. “Chase.”

“Good evening, Chase. Are you from out of town?”

“‘bout fifteen minutes out.”

“You made a wise choice, pulling over, and you were lucky to park near my office. I run a small clinic called The Good Doctor: Therapy and Counseling.” 

The doctor’s distractions seem to be working. Chase is starting to think a bit more clearly. “Wait… Are you Dr. Schneeplestein?” 

“Oh, you’ve heard of me? You can call me Henrik.” 

“I… I called you yesterday.” 

“Chase…” He closes his eyes, trying to remember. “Chase Brandy? Chase Brody!” 

“Yeah.” He finally releases his grasp on the steering wheel. 

“Hmm. Yes, I remember your call. You were worried about your relationship with your wife. Why are you here now, if I may ask?”

“Uh… my wife and I got into a fight. I just got into the car and drove… anywhere,  really.” 

“And you ended up here. Very interesting.” He strokes his beard. “I was wondering why you didn’t return my call today. If you would like, I could have an emergency first session with you.” 

“Really?” He sounds eager, but his face falls. “I wouldn’t want to bother you after hours.”

“I offered; it’s no trouble at all,” he reassures him.

“But, I told Stacy…” he trails off seeming to regret starting that sentence. 

“Stacy is your wife, correct? What about her?” 

Chase takes a deep breath. “She doesn’t want to get other people involved… my call is what we were fighting about.” 

“Your mental health care is for  _ you _ to decide, Chase. If she has made you feel  differently, I am sorry. I’m not asking  _ her  _ if you want to have this first session; I am asking  _ you. _ ” 

“Oh.” Chase blinks a few times as if this is an astonishing revelation. “Then… yes..?” 

Henrik smiles warmly. “Alright, then come with me.” 


	6. You Can Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present! Jackie sat and listened to Chase ramble for hours, and he tries to figure out how to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright yall I am officially out of planned material. I have no idea where this story is going except for like a couple vague details somewhere in the future. I've been dealing with some writer's block, so thanks for your patience in advance. <3 Also, I didn't spend as much time proofreading this so I might change some grammatical stuff in post.

The moment Chase falls asleep, Jackie feels helpless. His friend just spent the last two hours rambling about…  _ all  _ of his heartache. The abuse, the drinking, the scars… They’ve been close friends since high school, and even he had no idea what Chase was going through. Chase has been with Stacy for  _ years _ and nothing seemed different. Jackie has always prided himself in his intuition. The fact that Chase was going through hell, and he hadn’t even the  _ slightest _ inkling that something was wrong fills him with shame. 

Chase is a sweet man with so much love to give he doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s heartbreaking to see him so wasted away. He scans over his friend’s frail form. He looks so small curled up on the floor next to him. Over the last few months he’s lost weight. The bags under his eyes are a sickly shade of yellow, and his cheeks are still wet from earlier. 

He needs some proper rest, so Jackie scoops him up gently to bring him to his bed. He frowns at how easy it was to lift him, and maneuvers his way around the house to Chase’s room. He carefully lays him on top of his bed and lets out a small sigh when he gets a better look at his surroundings. Laundry is scattered on the floor, so Jackie figures the least he can do is pick up a little. 

After collecting all of the clothes scattered around the floor, he gets started on the dishes and stumbles upon Chase’s alcohol cabinet. He’s not surprised, but his heart still feels heavy as the cabinet doors clap shut. 

Jackie plops himself onto the couch to finally get some rest, but one of the cushions crinkles under his weight. Stuffed into the couch is a crumpled piece of paper. 

_ Huh.  _

He unfolds the small page. 

_ I didn’t know Chase liked writing.  _

It’s covered in scribbled notes, most of which are scratched out or illegible, but they look like poetry. The bottom of the page is smudged and warped, like he’d been crying. He decides to see if there are any more pages in the couch. He lifts the cushion to the left and drops it in stunned silence. 

_ Chase hates guns; why does Chase have a gun?  _

There’s a phone number scrawled out onto a shred of paper next to it. He snatches the paper and throws the cushion back into place. Jackie hopes to all hell that this is a misunderstanding– that he’s just tired and jumping to conclusions. He doesn’t hesitate before punching the number into his phone. It rings twice before a soft, kind voice answers the phone. 

“Hi, you’ve reached the 24 hour hotline. My name is Sam. What can I help you with?” 

Jackie hesitates for a few seconds before replying. “Uh, I… I just found this phone number… uh… it’s a long story.” 

Sam’s voice remains calm and gentle, “That’s okay, you can take your time. What’s your name?” 

“Uh…” God, he’s good with words. “...Jackie.” 

“Hi, Jackie. Why don’t you tell me why you called?” 

Jackie takes a deep breath. “Okay. My friend called me earlier today and he was absolutely plastered. His wife left him about six months ago and he lost his kids. I was really worried, so I came over to keep an eye on him. He fell asleep, and I found…” He rubs his eyes.  _ Oh god _ . “I found a gun hidden in his couch with this phone number next to it. So I just hoped to hell that it wasn’t what I thought it was and called it to see who picked up.” He sits down on the couch. “This is… this is a suicide hotline, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, this is a 24 hour call service.” 

Jackie sighs. “Okay. Oh, boy.” He stands to pace around the living room. “Oh, god.” He tries his best to focus on breathing. He can’t believe he hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation sooner. 

He stops pacing to sit on a recliner. “I don’t know what to do. He said he’d been seeing a therapist before his wife left, but stopped when she finally did. I don’t know why; he was too worked up to answer any questions. He just kept saying, ‘I should have listened to him’ over and over again.” 

“I know this must be very stressful, Jackie. If he had this number, that’s a good sign that he hasn’t completely given up just yet. I’d suggest you encourage him to get back in touch with his therapist. He’ll be able to help him the most right now. Until then, I’d also suggest you keep him company, if possible. If you fear he’ll hurt himself regardless, don’t hesitate to dial 999 or drive him to the ER yourself, even if he doesn’t want to. His life is far more important than any disagreement you may have over it.” 

Jackie rests his head in his free hand and takes a moment to absorb all of that. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.” 

“You can,” Sam assures him.


	7. I Can't Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chase is given advice, but he doesn't follow it. What happens isn't his fault, though. You bet he's gonna blame himself.

“Ah, hello again, Chase. Always good to see you.” Henrik smiles kindly.

“Hey.” Chase gives a small wave and tries to force a smile as he gently slides into his spot on the couch. He hugs his sides and slouches.

“Hmm. What’s going on?” The doctor raises a brow.

“Oh, Stacy’s just… being her usual self.” He tries to brush off the question. “How’ve you been?”

Henrik gives him a skeptical look. “Chase, you’re allowed to be honest here. If something’s bothering you, it’d be best to talk about it.”

Chase sighs and rests his head on the back of his chair. “How are you so good at that?”

“Body language. You’re still avoiding the question.” He adjusts his glasses before hazarding a guess at what’s been on his mind. “Is this about last week’s session?”

Chase rubs both of his thighs absentmindedly. “... yeah.”

“Have you at least considered my advice?”

“Yeah." He furrows his brows. "I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“She’s verbally abusive, Chase.”

“Yeah…” He hasn’t been entirely honest about everything Stacy’s done. “I’m just… scared.”

“That’s understandable.”

Chase sighs.

“You can do this, Chase. Here– I have a list of resources you can use.” He hands Chase a slip of paper with a list of labeled phone numbers. “Don’t hesitate to call any of them. They’ll tell you what to do. This isn’t going to be easy, but I know you can do it.”  

Chase scans over the list: a lawyer, a support group for single dads, another support group for domestic abuse survivors, and several others. He takes a deep breath to let everything sink in. “Thanks, Henrik.”

Henrik smiles and gives a small nod. “First thing you should do is call the lawyer. She’ll be able to help you with the first step– asking for a divorce.”

Chase starts to put the list in his pocket.

“Oh, wait, I’ve got one more to put on there.” Henrik holds out his hand, and Chase gives the slip of paper back. He scribbles one last phone number at the bottom of the sheet. He looks up with concern in his eyes, “For emergencies,” he adds before gingerly passing the note back.

Chase reads the new note at the bottom. ‘Crisis hotline: 1-800-273-8255.’ Underneath it, Henrik has written ‘You matter.’

* * *

 

After his appointment, Chase sits in his car to read over the list of numbers. He scribbles the date and time of his next appointment onto the back.

_I can do this._

He has to get home before he loses the courage to talk to Stacy.

* * *

 

Chase pulls into the driveway but makes no move to get out.

_All I have to do is go inside. I just have to go inside._

He still makes no move to get out of the car. He slams his hands on the steering wheel.

 _I just have to_ _go inside! I can do this!_

He stares at the front door.

...

_I can’t do this._

Frustrated at his cowardice, he lets the tension in his shoulders relax and slumps back in his seat. He presses his hands over his face and holds his breath to keep from crying. He hates himself for it, but he can’t bring himself to stand up to her.

After a few minutes of beating himself up, he walks up to the front door. Stacy is looking through the mail when he enters.

“Hey, Stace,” he mumbles.

She ignores him.

“I, uh… just got back from bowling,” he lies. Guilt fills his chest. He’d told her a friend invited him to a weekly “game night” to cover up his therapy sessions. He can’t fathom what would happen if she found out he lied to her.

She still pays him almost no attention. Monotonously, she states, “Kay. I’m meeting up with my sister tonight. Kids are spending the night with friends, so I’ll drop them off on my way.”

He jumps at the opportunity. “I can take them!” She doesn’t let him spend much time with the kids anymore.

She barely flicks her eyes in his direction. “The stops are on my way.” She frowns before snapping, “Leave me alone; you’re distracting me.”

Chase blushes so hard it reaches the tips of his ears. “I’m sorry.” Ashamed, he tries to whisk away to avoid any harsh words, but Henrik’s small piece of paper flutters out of his pocket as he passes her. He snatches it off the ground too quickly; Stacy would’ve paid no mind if she hadn’t seen the fear in his eyes.

“What’s that?”

He stays quiet for far too long. “… a receipt.”

She holds out her hand. “Then can I _see_ it?”

He holds it close to his chest.

“Give it to me. Now.”

He slowly hands it over.

Holding his breath, Chase’s hands and feet go numb as she reads the list. She finally looks up, and his flushed face instantly pales. Evidence of every lie he’s told for the last few months is on that paper.

“What the hell is this?” Her voice is scarily quiet.

Chase has no words. He can’t get out of this one, and they both know it.

After an eternity of glowering that could burn holes into skin, she crumples the paper in her fist and drops it.

She takes a step forward, and he instinctively takes a step back. She scowls at his response.

As she slinks past him, he whispers, “Stacy, please don’t go.”

Over her shoulder, she coldly replies, “You’re not to speak to me or the kids. Goodbye.”


End file.
